


Workplace Party

by shieldivarius



Series: Femslash Yuletide 2014 [23]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alcohol, Christmas Party, Coulson has an ugly Christmas tie, F/F, Femslash Yuletide, Fluff, Gen, Prompt: Workplace Party, hohoho it's been two years and I'm still updating this series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-12
Updated: 2016-12-12
Packaged: 2018-09-08 04:23:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8830333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shieldivarius/pseuds/shieldivarius
Summary: The annual S.H.I.E.L.D. holiday party: where it was a toss-up as to whether she was going to get called to work in the middle of it or not. 
(This year, as it turned out, the answer was not.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> It's been two years and I am _still_ finishing this challenge.
> 
> Set sometime between stories one and two, when the Advent Gang was a string of "isolated mischief."

How many off-duty-but-not-really government agents could you fit into a festive room before half of the party started disappearing because they all got the same call?

Natasha had been making a point of keeping off to one side of the room, socializing only with those who approached her table—placed almost within arm's reach of the largest bar in the rented hall, and far, far back from the stage and parquet dance floor at the front of the room—and ticking off on her fingers (well, mentally) those who darted out of the noisy ballroom and into the quieter hallway beyond with phones pressed to their ears.

So far that was Hershell and Takahashi, Level 3's from analytics; Cho (Level 5) and Fakhoury (also Level 3) from physical sciences; and three Level 2 field agents (Beck, Nguyen and Ellenbogen). Natasha tapped her fingers on the side of her wine glass as a fourth low level field agent (was Brady 1 or 2?) darted for the door, laughing and clapping someone who waylaid him (she couldn't see who) on the shoulder as he went by.

"What d'you think's going on?" Barton asked, leaning across the empty chair between them when he picked up on where her attention had gone.

Natasha shrugged, and pulled her own phone from her purse to glance at it. Clear of alerts. "Cat up a tree?" 

Barton snickered. He didn't have the names and levels of everyone in S.H.I.E.L.D. memorized—that was her job—but no one in their circle had been plucked, so even the handlers running the op were on the low end.

"Hey, where's May?" Barton shifted into Melinda's vacated seat as he asked, sitting up with his neck so straight it looked like it might come right out of his crooked bow tie and peering around the room.

Natasha offered another shrug and took a sip from her wine glass like that could hide that she was wondering the same thing.

They hadn't come _together,_ exactly, but when Melinda had found herself assigned to a different table—one with a group of the bores down in administration—Natasha had flipped around a few cards and righted _that_  quickly enough. Ward needed to be lectured on cleaning up his paperwork anyway, and there hadn't even been a cross word spoken in her direction when she'd messed around in the Holiday Party Planning Committee's precious weeks of work (though there had been quite a few behind her back that she wasn't supposed to have overheard).

But Melinda had disappeared after dinner, and from her seated angle, Natasha couldn't see enough of the room to figure out where she'd gone. She hadn't left, at least not by the main doors into the ballroom, but that was all Natasha could say for sure.

Barton pushed his chair out and stood, downing his beer as he went. "I'm going to go find her for you."

"Excuse me?" 

"Oh, please. You're not a cipher to me, Romanoff."

Smirking at the word, she raised her eyebrows, “You mixing shots of jäger in with your beer and reading SAT word lists again?" 

He ignored her in favour of looking very pointedly around the room. "There," he said after a moment. "She's talking to Rogers. Laughing, actually. Hey, that's tough competition for you."

_Tough—?_ Natasha got to her feet, and if it was with a little more haste and a little less grace than she might've wanted, well, Barton had his attention across the room and not on her.

"Rogers has nothing on me," the wine she'd been drinking said. 

"Ohohoho," Barton laughed, turning around to look at her. "You are _jealous_ , Miss _My Date Disappeared and I'm Just Going to Shrug about It._ "

Jealous of Steve Rogers? For one or two things, maybe (only if she dwelled on it very, very hard), but his ability with women was not one of them.

She slapped her palm down on the table, and maybe she'd imbibed enough to compare to Barton, because the few teacups abandoned there rattled in their saucers and leftover wine sloshed in glasses. 

"Excuse me," she said. And, oh, this was stupid, but Barton's teasing drove her enough to keep acting instead of hesitating long enough to talk herself out of walking across the room.

She ducked out of conversations with three different people who tried to engage with her as she went, her gaze locked on Melinda and Steve, still chatting near the edge of the parquet section of the floor. Acting as a backdrop to them was a group of barely-out-of-the-academy rookies dancing in a tight circle to _All I Want for Christmas Is You_  as it blared over the speakers around them.

Steve noticed her first, as she cleared a group of empty chairs scattered haphazardly around the table closest to the dance floor, and he beckoned her over. The gesture made Melinda look around as well, and her querying look transformed into a smile when she saw Natasha coming toward them.

"You disappeared," Natasha said by way of explanation. She tilted her head toward Steve, "I see you've met Rogers."

"We ran into each other on the way out to get some fresh air," Melinda said. She looked Natasha up and down, "Which you look like you could use."

Her cheeks were warm, but it wasn't from the heat in the room.

"I'm fine," she said, then added, "You two seemed to be hitting it off." 

"We were talking about Coulson's festive Cap tie," Melinda said. She nodded over her shoulder to where the aforementioned stood, suit jacket lying over the back of the chair next to him, leaning against the bar with a mug in his hand. The offending tie, a shiny red and green monstrosity with the shield emblazoned on it and a sprig of holly placed over the white star, stood out against his grey shirt.

Natasha closed her eyes for a moment as though she might be able to bleach the image from her brain, and smiled, lips pulled wide in amusement. " _Oh,_ " she said with a breath of laughter.

Steve looked embarrassed. "Melinda thought it might be custom."

Natasha pulled out her phone and flashed it at them. She angled it at Coulson, zooming in with one of the S.H.I.E.L.D. surveillance apps (with a usage it was  _definitely_ not intended for) and, satisfied, uploaded the image to a reverse search.

Steve had his head in his hand by the time the results returned, pinging in a cascade of hits on her screen.

"Not custom," she assured him. "But apparently very popular."

Steve grimaced. "I'm not sure knowing thousands of people have the same tie is any better."

"Well," Natasha said, and if she was listing a little too far into Melinda, the other woman didn't say anything and merely stood there, holding her up. "At least you don't have to dwell any longer on Coulson's collection."

She scrolled back through the results returned by the photo. Most of them were just more photos of the tie, from retailers or other Cap fans posting pictures of themselves wearing it on social media. Buried toward the end was an interesting looking link, though, a couple-year-old contest winner announcement. Natasha selected it and burst out laughing at the headline.

"Oh, no," Steve moaned.

Natasha held up the phone screen so that Melinda could read what was on it, hiding it from Steve to shield him from the information.

Melinda started laughing as well, casting sidelong glances over to Coulson when she tried to get herself under control, and bursting out in renewed chuckles whenever she did. "I'm not surprised," she said.

"What?" Steve asked. He looked defeated, but in good humour. "What'd you find?" He didn't try to look around at the screen. Instead, he all but peered through his fingers, jokingly hiding himself from the information.

"Apparently Coulson won a design contest," Natasha said. "And the company printed. Well," she indicated the tie. " _That._ " 

Steve shook his head.

"It was before you came out of the ice, if that's any consolation," Natasha said.

"A little," Steve muttered, still shaking his head. "I think I was better off not knowing."

Natasha smiled at him, a coy little grin. "Maybe you should go ask him about it," she suggested.

Steve opened his mouth, probably to respond with a strong negative, then hesitated and glanced from Natasha to Melinda and then back again. "Maybe I will," he said. And, wow, was there a sign above her head? Not a cipher, indeed.

"It was a pleasure meeting you, Agent May," Steve said, offering a hand.

"And you, Captain Rogers," Melinda said as they shook. 

He nodded to Natasha, a sly sort of expression in his eyes, and headed off toward Coulson. 

Melinda promptly cupped a hand under Natasha's elbow and guided her over to a chair. "You're drunk," she said. She pulled another chair up and placed it across from Natasha's, sitting down so close their knees were almost touching.

Natasha wanted their knees to touch, but not where every nosy busy-body in S.H.I.E.L.D.—and as many of the higher-ups fell under that label as the rookies—could see them. 

"I'm going where the wine takes me," Natasha clarified. "There's a difference."

"You're definitely drunk," Melinda said. "And I seem to remember you insisting on driving."

Natasha grimaced. She had, and the thought of leaving her Corvette in a banquet hall parking lot overnight wasn't appealing. "Are you offering to drive me home?" Natasha asked. 

"Does that duty involve a stop to drive your partner home as well?" Melinda cast a glance over her shoulder as she spoke, as though expecting Barton to have trailed after her like a puppy.

Natasha rolled her eyes. "Have another drink, Melinda," she said, sobering up for the moment. "There's nothing in this hall strong enough to get Rogers drunk. We have a ride."

She stood, gesturing for Melinda to follow her back across the room and toward the bar back at the far end that Barton was holding up, laughing with a couple of senior analysts.

"So?" she prompted after ordering another round of drinks and passing Melinda one. "What's called everyone away?"

Barton snickered and indicated O'Bryen. "What was it?" 

The analyst rolled his eyes. "Some freak's gone and affixed a bunch of antlers to some dogs. Real, shed off antlers, and real, released-from-the-pound dogs. They sent some junior agents off to deal with it. Get their feet wet."

"Get them used to being called away from fun at any hour," Melinda added.

O'Bryen raised his drink toward her in acknowledgement. "Didn't call anyone above a Level 5, and they can keep it that way."

They clinked their glasses together in a toast to that. Being senior field agents may have meant being constantly thrown into war zones—or being tapped as members of the Avengers—but at least they hadn’t got called away from the holiday party. 

Natasha glanced at Melinda, who had colour rising high in her cheeks as she laughed and sipped at her drinks, and a bright shine in her eyes. She'd take the high points of the position where she could get them. No complaints.

**Author's Note:**

> http://shieldivarius.tumblr.com


End file.
